


The Best Laid Plans

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angelo Ships It, F/F, F/M, Gen, Harry's dating the Ice Queen's PA, M/M, Moving In Together, Mrs. Hudson gets what she wants, New Relationship, Older Characters, Wiggins needs noise cancelling headphones, marriage plans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Sherlock is planning another wedding, only he keeps getting shot down by John. Molly spends time with Sherlock and Rosie and they discuss wedding plans. John and Molly both have to assert their independence with those over-bearing Holmes men. Molly and Mycroft sit down to discuss the future; Althea owes Molly an apology and it makes her late for her first date with Harry Watson, who is a nervous wreck. Martha and Rudy embarrass Wiggins. Again. Greg reflects on his loneliness and lack of bed partners; is it so much to ask that he find someone steady who doesn't make him feel like their dad?As The Saddest Stag Night Ever suddenly derails - thanks to Uncle Rudy and Jaegermeister - Greg gets an unexpected offer, Sherlock and John out their dancing skills to good use, and the ladies have their own night of  debauchery.





	1. The Best Laid Plans- Chapter One

          “Is there a particular reason you want to get married in my lab?” Molly finished arranging the pad Thai, crab rolls and extra lime wedges on her plate and carefully carried it to the sofa, where Sherlock was sprawled. “Budge up.” When he blinked at her she motioned at his feet with her head, “Shift those big skis you call feet, I want to sit down.”

          “My feet are perfectly in proportion to my frame,” Sherlock sniffed, not moving an inch. “You have two chairs to choose from.”

          “This is more companionable.” Molly stood her ground, and when he didn’t move she sat her drink down and ran her fingers up the sole of one foot. He yelped and pulled his foot back instinctively and she dropped onto the sofa.

          “Companionable,” she heard him mutter, and then more loudly, “You mean you hate to see me relaxing and insist on disturbing my peace. I have a prodigious intellect which requires rest upon the conclusion of a case. Why do you and John both persist in trying to socialize me?”

          “You’re not a rescue dog, Sherlock,” Molly said rudely, “You don’t need to be socialized. You _like_ being an arse. We all know it.” She took a bite of her food and moaned happily, “God, I’m starving.”

          “You’re getting fat,” Sherlock smirked, and poked her side with his toes, wriggling them, “You’ve got a roll, just there.”

          Molly’s glare was murderous, “I’m. Not. Getting. Fat.” She brandished her fork rather menacingly, “I put on a _few_ pounds and I’m dieting.” Glancing down at her plate she amended, “Mostly.”

          “You look grand, Molly,” Janine called from next door, raising her voice to be heard through the connecting door. “Don’t let that pipe cleaner get under your skin.” She stuck her head around the doorframe and pointed a stern finger his way, “Don’t be rude to your friends. And don’t forget, you’ve got that puff piece with _The Sun_ tomorrow. Feed them the news, don’t _be_ the news.”

          “ _The Sun_?” Molly looked askance.

          Janine leaned in the doorway, crossing her arms over her royal blue button down, straining the buttons over her very nice cleavage. Molly reflected sadly that any pounds she gained never seemed to go to her own bosom. “Word has gotten out about the engagement and everyone wants a piece. I’m trying to get this one here to come across as a happy groom, but it’s a lot of work.” She checked her watch, “Past time for me to be going, but I’ll be here bright and early, so we can go over what you’re to say.”

          “I’ve been speaking on my own for some time now,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically. Molly noticed that he didn’t mutter it very loud.

          “Yes,” Janine shouted cheerfully from the office, slamming a drawer shut, “and look how well that’s worked out for you in the past. Goodnight, all!”

          “Goodnight,” Molly called back brightly. Sherlock was silent, apparently brooding over the indignity he suffered at the hands of his erstwhile girlfriend. “So, you never did say, why exactly do you want to get married at the lab?”

          “It’s where John and I first met,” Sherlock said as if it should be obvious. He sat up, narrowly avoiding kicking Molly’s plate out of her hands. “Isn’t that romantic?” His question seemed legitimately to be one of inquiry, not that of someone looking for confirmation of an opinion.

          “It’s sweet that you want to be romantic,” Molly said, smiling, “But I’m not sure the lab is practical. I’m surprised, I thought you’d want to sneak off to the registry office—“ Catching sight of his expression a grin broke out on her face. “Did John shoot you down on doing it without telling anyone?”

          He sulked, “It would have meant less fuss and delay.”

          She patted his knee, “He just wants to share your happy day with those of us that love you.”

          “The engagement party should have been enough.”

          “Don’t pout.” Molly sipped her drink, “What exactly does John say? What does he want?”

          “He said he doesn’t want a fuss, but I know him,” Sherlock said darkly, “He does.”

          “I think he just wants the day to have meaning.” Molly chewed a bite, tilted her head, “May I suggest something?” At his hopeful nod she went on, “Why don’t the two of you have the service at the registry office—you can invite just a few people—and then have a reception at Angelo’s? That was where you had your first meal together, wasn’t it? I’m sure Angelo would be thrilled to let you reserve the restaurant for a few hours. That way everyone could enjoy themselves, but it wouldn’t be public. And you could invite more people to the reception than the registry office.”

          “Hmmm,” Sherlock rubbed his finger over his lips. Molly ate another bite of food and tucked her feet under her. Watching him pace, Molly enjoyed her dinner. It had been a long week and she was happy to put her feet up and relax. Despite Sherlock stepping over the furniture and occasionally muttering to himself, the flat was quite peaceful; the curtains were open, letting in the last light of the setting sun, and from the bathroom came the sounds of Rosie’s laughter as she splashed in the bath.

          “That sounds acceptable,” Sherlock decided, rubbing his hands together. “Provided John agrees, of course,” This last was added on as a bit of an afterthought, but Molly supposed it was still an improvement from his usual manner of proceeding with all the delicacy of a tank when he wanted his way.

          Emily, the energetic young woman that John had hired as Rosie’s nanny, came into the room, preceded by her young charge, who was dressed in fresh pyjamas with a halo of damp curls proclaiming her recent ablutions. “Here we are, there’s Papa and Auntie Molly!” Emily said cheerfully, and smiled when Rosie put on a little speed and ran forward to pitch herself enthusiastically into Sherlock’s arms.

          “Thank you, Emily,” Sherlock said as he held Rosie aloft and then smiled up at her happy face. He brought his daughter down and kissed her, burying his nose in her neck and releasing a cascade of giggles as she squirmed. “Ah, now you smell much better! Do you want to go see Aunt Molly?”

          Molly set aside her plate and held out her arms for her god-daughter and they had a good cuddle and gossip as Sherlock thanked Emily and she waved goodbye to go downstairs to her own basement apartment. “John must be running late,” Sherlock muttered, checking his phone. “I wish he would quit. I—we make enough money consulting.”

          “Becoming a doctor requires a lot of time and sacrifice; it isn’t something to just be abandoned because it suits you. And he doesn’t want his skills to get rusty.” Molly pointed out tartly, “And I’m sure he wants a little independence.” Sherlock’s expression made it clear he didn’t quite grasp that last concept.

          “Is that why you aren’t moving in to the ancestral manor?” Sherlock asked, sitting down and picking up her plate. He took a healthy bite, ignoring her protest that she wasn’t done, and gave her a look of bland interest. She wasn’t fooled, he wanted a gossip, and to deflect from his own grumbling. “You want your independence from Mycroft?”

          “Not that it is any of your affair, but I haven’t told him no definitively.” Molly let a wriggling Rosie down and watched as she lay on her tummy and pretended to read from one of her books. “There are some things we need to work on first.”

          “Tired of his snooping?”

          “He employed sneaky means,” Molly scowled, “He used Althea against me, and he plotted to find out if I was ready to move in, instead of just asking me like an adult.”

          He laughed in a rather mean-spirited way, “Mycroft has nothing _but_ sneaky means! Surely you can’t be surprised?”

          “I thought Althea was my friend,” Molly muttered, embarrassed. She was still hurt that Mycroft and Althea had tried to run a job on her.

          “Friendship doesn’t preclude using the means at hand,” Sherlock was so matter-of-fact; but of course, he would be. He was the man who routinely had flirted with her to get more lab time, had lied to and drugged his best friend and treated Scotland Yard like a collection agency for cases. “Mycroft has never made himself so vulnerable; he wouldn’t go in without a hefty dose of planning and insider information.”

          Molly bit her lip and was silent. Sherlock had a point; Mycroft was extremely diffident, even with her after all this time. When he was worried about something he tried to manage it to death. Relationships were a foreign concept for him and any new territory was one he entered cautiously. “I’ll talk to him.”

          “Yes, yes, talk to him, not to me.”

          “This is what friends _do_ , Sherlock, they talk about things.” Molly teased him and he rolled his eyes but she could see the smile that lurked around his lips. She changed the subject, “Isn’t it Rosie’s bedtime? Would you like me to take her to bed?”

          “No, I was trying to keep her up until John returned.”

          They looked at the little girl in question, who was sitting on the rug, rubbing her eyes with a chubby fist and trying to turn the page of her book with the other hand. “She’s getting awfully sleepy,” Molly pointed out, “Maybe you should start reading her a story and see if John is home by then.”

          As it turned out, John managed to make it home before Rosie was entirely asleep, and he apologized as he hurried through the door, already shedding his bag and jacket. “Sorry! There was a minor emergency and I got held over.” He bent over Rosie, who was reclined in Sherlock’s arms, listening sleepily to the book he was reading; he kissed first Rosie and then Sherlock, and Molly returned his hello but slipped into the kitchen to give the little family a bit of privacy.

          While they put Rosie to bed, Molly heated up a plate for John and called Mycroft; the phone went to voice mail and she kept her message simple. “Hello love, I’m sure you’re busy. I just wanted to see if you had some time free in the next day or two? I think we need to talk. I love you.”

          Molly carried out a plate for John and informed him she had put the kettle on. “Oh Molly, bless you, you’re a saint,” he said gratefully, sinking into his chair and putting his feet up. He sighed as he dug into his food, “What a bloody long day, God, my feet are killing me.”

          “You don’t have to—“ Sherlock broke off and glared at Molly, who had jabbed him in the side. “What was that for?”

          “John,” Molly said enthusiastically, ignoring Sherlock, “Sherlock and I were discussing wedding plans and I think we might have a solution.”

          “No lab?” John perked up and sent her a grateful look when she winked. Sherlock outlined Molly’s idea, earning a thoughtful nod from John.

          “Sounds pretty perfect, actually.” John wiped his mouth, “Not too big or fussy, but just our friends and family. Angelo will be over the moon,” he grinned teasingly at his fiancé, “he did call it from the beginning. Remember?”

          Sherlock may have looked the tiniest bit bashful when he gazed at John, and the smile they shared spoke volumes.

          After the three of them had discussed plans for a bit, Molly stood up, “If either of you need anything, you know you have only to ask. But for now, I think it’s time I went home. I’m sure you’re tired John, and would like a little time alone with Sherlock. I’ll see you both tomorrow at the planning session.”

          Sherlock overrode John’s automatic gracious response, with his own louder, “Of course we want to be alone.” At John’s muttered _Sherlock_ , he tacked on a smile, “But thank you.”

          Molly hugged them both and collected her things, letting herself out. Her plans to walk to the nearest Tube station were dashed when she walked out of the front door and saw the midnight black Jaguar waiting at the kerb. Rolling her eyes she reached for the door handle and opened the door, peering into the backseat. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

 

******

 

          Relaxing in bed, Martha stretched and hummed a bit; Rudy was currently under the covers getting quite familiar with her lady parts and she was floating on cloud nine. Really, he was quite clever with his tongue and she—“Ohhhh,” a sudden swirl of his tongue took her by surprise and she moaned a little more loudly than she had intended. Not that she was shy, but after last weekend’s bedroom antics Billy Wiggins had hardly been able to meet her eyes when they passed in the hallway.

          Rudy took her by surprise again and she gave in, making her approval quite vocal. Billy could sod off; young men knew nothing of a woman’s needs. Thank goodness she had found Rudy, he had quite supplanted Mr. Chatterjee in her affections and in her bed.

          “Just there,” Martha praised breathlessly and moaned again at the addition of a finger; her orgasms had become more rare as she got older, but the road to them got more ah, ah…where was she? Oh yes, scenic as well. And they were so gloriously intense when they happened. Rudy moved and his wig brushed her inner thigh, releasing a girlish giggle from her. She felt his own laugh against her flesh and shivered. “Ooh, love, do that again.”

          What a blessing he was…if only Mr. C had been open to a menage a trois; she really had always wanted to experience more than one man in bed. Dear Rudy was open-minded as well as swinging both ways on occasion, but as yet she had yet to find a man to fulfill her fantasy.

          Not that that was a concern at the moment, thank you. “OH YES!”

 

******

 

          Putting his empty pint glass down with a bit more of a thump than he had intended, Greg gestured to the bartender, a succulent young woman just the right age that she could have been his daughter. Christ, when had he gotten so old? Fifty three and looking fifty four in the face; divorced, not seeing anyone and quite frankly a bit bored with the women that were out there.

          _I’m not looking for romance_ , he sighed inwardly, _but regular sex would be welcome._ Somehow he was too old (or felt that way) for the younger set that was looking for something casual, but all the women closer to his age were either so embittered by divorce that they spent the entire night treating him like a suspect, or they were gagging for a new husband to settle down with. He just wanted someone to make him feel young and sexy.

          _Maybe that’s too much to ask_ , he reflected with self-deprecating humour, _at my age_. He was not unaware of his looks or his effect on women, or on men for that matter. It was finding someone to share his bed with that he could actually stand the next day; _that_ was the problem.

 

******

 

          Stupid, at her age to be this nervous about a date. It wasn’t like she was inexperienced, Harry reflected, wiping away the crooked eyeliner and trying again. She’d been dating since she was fifteen—although back then it had been boys—and she was quite the popular girl in her twenties, then of course she and Clara had been married for twelve years, then there were a few women, some serious and some not. But she’d been celibate and trying desperately to get her shit back together for the last few years, and the idea of a date was making her nervous.

          Especially since it was with the intimidatingly gorgeous, self-assured and perfectly groomed Althea. God, what a stunning beauty she was, and what unexpectedly good company she had ended up being. At least at the dinner party there had been other people and the pressure was off. Since then the two of them had texted quite a lot, and they had chatted briefly on the phone a few times.

          Now, tonight, they were finally meeting; it was rather late, but Althea had apologized for her hours, stating frankly that they were high-pressure and ridiculous and had been a bone of contention with anyone she tried dating. Her earlier text had been brief, stating that she had one last stop to make and then she would be on her way; her apology for the delay was tacked on as if she weren’t used to considering other’s feelings.

          “I’m used to high-pressure,” Harry had assured her, laughing, “My job tends to run late most days, sometimes some crazy hours if I’ve got an overseas account.”

          So tonight they were finally going to see one another, just the two of them, at a restaurant Althea knew which was open late. Harry wished she could have a drink, just one, to take the edge off. That kind of thinking, however, was dangerous, and she snapped the elastic on her wrist sharply and looked in the mirror, ignoring her uneven eye make-up. “You don’t need a drink,” she told herself sternly, “You have been sober for three years, two months and thirteen days; you’re in control of your destiny, not the drink. Your career is great, you’ve lost weight, you have friends and family that support you and this is a date. One single, simple date.”

          Hands steadier, Harry leaned back into the mirror and fixed her make up. Checking her appearance she smiled, “Not bad, Watson.”

          When Althea showed up it was clear she agreed. Her own appearance was flawless despite her no-doubt very long and stressful day. Her tobacco brown suit was sleek and wrinkle-free, and she wore it over a silky twilight blue blouse that echoed the unusual color of her eyes. “You look fantastic,” she complimented, hesitating just slightly before she leaned in and kissed Harry’s cheek. “I’ve got my car downstairs, are you ready?”

          The car turned out to be a very posh and sophisticated black Jaguar, chauffeured by a faceless driver; the smoked glass partition stayed up, enveloping them in privacy. “This is…nicer than I expected,” Harry laughed a bit, and stroked the leather seat.

          Althea smile slightly, “Perk of the job.” She leaned back in her corner, “I had a personal errand to take care of, and I do apologize for being late.”

          “That’s alright, I’m usually up late, I’m a night owl,” Harry excused, “My job hours are not quite normal, like I said before.” She smiled, “I hope this wasn’t too inconvenient for you?”

          “No, it’s fine. I merely wanted to have a talk with Molly.”

          “Molly Hooper?”

          “Mm, yes. She and I have become friends, and I owed her an apology for a misunderstanding.” Althea didn’t say any more, and Harry got the impression she was already regretting saying anything.

          “I don’t know her all that well, but she strikes me as easy-going,” Harry offered, “I’m sure the two of you will work it out. She has to be fairly accommodating, after all she’s dating the Ice Quee—“ Breaking off she winced, and waited for Althea’s well-bred and icy disdain.

          Instead she surprised her by laughing, and they shared a smile. _Maybe this won’t be so bad_ , Harry thought in relief. _Not if we can laugh together_.

 

******

 

          Mycroft could not possibly be familiar with such 1980s American movie classics such as _Say Anything_ , but even he would be bound to recognize that Molly was making a gesture. Due to the well-constructed and very thick stone walls of his home, Molly had to text him: _You’re meant to hear me and come to the window_.

          A few minutes later the light came on and in short order the curtains were drawn, the blinds raised and then the sash came up. Mycroft’s neatly combed part appeared first, then his head and shoulders, and he braced his hands on the window sill, regarding her quizzically.

          Molly stood on the pavement in a trench coat, holding aloft her iPhone, the music playing on it barely audible even over the sedate sound of the traffic on his road. “Molly?” She smiled at him and his face suffused with relief. “Can I come in?”

          He disappeared from view and a minute later the front door opened and Molly rushed into his arms. They embraced tightly and finally she drew back enough to smile up into his dear face. “I’m sorry I’ve been so bitchy and—“

          Mycroft kissed her, arms tightening. He had never been so impetuous, so passionate in public. Granted, it was nearly eleven at night, and his neighbors were hardly sitting on their stoops spying; but for Mycroft it was an unusual move. “I’m sorry I used your friendship with Althea—“

          Molly shook her head, “Let’s go inside and talk, okay?” Mycroft nodded and closed and locked the door after them, and then went to close the window in the drawing room. Molly curled up on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Will you sit with me?”

          He lowered himself to the cushion and looked at her, and Molly felt tender at how anxious he appeared. _This is new to him_ , she reminded herself, _and Mycroft hasn’t had serious relationships_.

          “Was that Peter Gabriel?”

          That was not what she had been expecting, but she smiled, “It was. ‘In Your Eyes,’ as a matter of fact.”

          “I assume you were emulating some scene from popular culture with which I am unfamiliar?” Mycroft’s eyes gleamed and she laughed.

          “You know what movie I was copying, don’t you?”

          “I was young once, my dear,” he said smoothly, “I may possibly have seen every John Cusak movie ever made in the ‘80s.” Her delighted laugh made him smile more broadly, and they looked at one another in relief. The awkwardness and anger was gone.

          “Althea paid me a visit tonight—“ Molly put her hand over his and he closed his teeth on the objection which had automatically risen. “It’s alright, I’m glad she did. She and I cleared the air and I wanted to come do the same with you.” Molly took his hand in hers, raised it to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “She and Sherlock made me see that you were just being you—employing any method at your disposal to check out the situation before you played your hand.”

          It was not her imagination that he looked both annoyed and relieved. “You’re not as mysterious as you’d like to believe, Croft, not to those of us that love you.” Molly lightly bit his knuckle when he rolled his eyes. “I still wish you had come to me and brought up the subject, but I understand why you did what you did.”

          “Hurting you was not my intention,” Mycroft assured her, “and I certainly didn’t want to cause trouble between you and Althea. She was strenuous in her objections over being used as a spy.”

          “She made that clear,” Molly said with a teasing smile, “Abundantly clear. She heaped all the blame on you.”

          “The price I pay for being the boss,” he winked. Sobering, he covered her hand with his, “Truly though, my dear, I am sorry for my subterfuge. I—I confess that I find myself increasingly in unfamiliar waters with you. This tends to make me worry and when I worry I try to prepare. I forgot that you are my girlfriend, not an opponent.”

          “I actually realized that after I got over being angry at you doing it.” Molly leaned back more comfortably on the sofa and rolled her head to meet his eyes, “So. Me moving in.”

          “Yes?” The tenseness that flooded him did not abate when Molly informed him that she had some points she wanted to discuss. “And those are?”

          “One, finances: if I move in, I want us to share expenses.” Molly gestured at him to let her finish and he subsided, an objection dying on his lips. “Two, socializing: have you considered that sometimes I’ll want to spend time with my friends at home? Three, Toby: are you prepared to have him living in your beautiful house amidst all these antiques and expensive furnishings? Four: what about your privacy? I know how much you value it, and how important it is for more than your work. Mycroft, you need time to decompress from the world, to let your beautiful brain refresh itself…” Molly looked uncertain for the first time. “Won’t I be in the way?”

          He patted his lap, looking solemn, and Molly hesitated and then acquiesced, rising to sit on his knee. She looped an arm around his neck, resting her other hand over the reassuring steady beat of his heart, and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. “Have I talked you out of the idea?” She whispered in his ear, and felt him laugh soundlessly.

          “Not at all, my dear,” Mycroft pulled back so he could smile at her, “I’m impressed by your clarity. I take it you practiced that?”

          “I did,” Molly raised her chin and smiled at him, “I knew you would appreciate preparedness.”

          “Thank you. Now, may I address your points?”

          “You may. Please proceed.”

          “Thank you.” Mycroft put his arms more tightly around her so he could tick off points on his fingers. “One, finances: my first instinct is to assure you that I have sufficient means to keep us comfortably but—ah, yes, I see from your expression that I was right, you will not allow me to pay for the household. Very well, we can share expenses, but there are certain things, such as my supplemental security detail which will remain my aegis. Now, point the second: this house is quite large enough for you to post a dinner party and yet me to never cross paths with any of your friends. However, I want to point out that I am happy to host gatherings with you if you so desire.”

          “Really?” Molly pulled a skeptical face and he grimaced and conceded that “happy” was perhaps a stretch.

          “Nevertheless, I will do my part. Now, I believe your third concern was Toby’s presence in the household? I assure you he is welcome. He will enjoy roaming the rooms, and we can keep doors closed to any areas he should be restricted from. Wither goes Molly, there goes Toby, hmm?” His smile was rather lighthearted, and Molly laughed appreciatively.

          “This brings us to your final concern: my privacy and need for reflection.” Mycroft tucked her hair behind her ear, cupped her cheek. “My dear, do you not realize that I have spent my life alone, both by choice and circumstance? I have had decades in which to store up silence. I’m looking forward to hearing the sound of my Molly’s voice in these empty rooms, to smell your shampoo lingering in the bathroom, to follow a trail of discarded socks to find you curled up reading in my study.” Mycroft stopped and kissed the tears sliding down her cheeks, “I seek not isolation, but rather the opposite.”

          “Oh damn you, Mycroft,” sniveled Molly, wiping at her tears, “How do you always reduce me to a blubbering mess? I think your best kept secret is not that you are remote and uncaring but that you’re just a big romantic smushy-bear.” An intense and lengthy kiss accompanied her observation, and when they parted—for lack of breath, rather than lack of passion—she was smiling. “The most romantic man in Britain, that’s you.”

          He colored faintly and murmured her name. Clearing his throat he went on briskly, “Have I appeased your worries?”

          “I’d like to sit down with you when it’s convenient and go over the household accounts, see where we can split expenses.” Molly took his offered handkerchief and blotted her face. “And we should definitely make an inventory of any rooms and items to keep Toby away from.”

          “I will have Althea and Valentine prepare the necessary documents and we can set up a day to take care of that as well as surveying the house.” Mycroft looked hopeful, “How soon can you begin the process of moving in?”

          “I still have a lease,” Molly pointed out, “And I want to take my time packing. There’s so much I won’t need.” She spoke with unconscious wistfulness, “Your house is so beautifully appointed, and I don’t need any of my furniture.”

          “On the contrary, my dear,” Mycroft said smoothly, “I’d like for you to bring anything you would like. I know you have some pieces you inherited from your parents, and this will be our home, not just mine.”

          “But most of my things are just…well, not antiques. And those that are older pieces are Mid-century Modern and Art Deco,” Molly pointed out, “They won’t exactly go with all the Regency furniture and the Chinoiserie pieces.”

          “An eclectic match,” Mycroft offered, “Much like ourselves.” And when she still looked doubtful he opined that there was sufficient room for her to recreate her apartment in several unused guest chambers if she so chose. “Does that put your mind to rest?’

          “Mm, I suppose. I’ll begin going through my things, and inform the building supervisor that I won’t be renewing my lease in February.” Molly suddenly gave him an exuberant squeeze, “Oh goodness I’m sorry I turned this into such a business deal. I really am thrilled to move in, Mycroft!”

          “As thrilled as I am to contemplate you living here with me,” Mycroft rejoined, and proceeded to show her just how thrilling he found it.

 

******

 

                Swaying slightly from one too many pints, Greg fumbled to put his key in the lock. He was alone. Again. But by choice.

          There had been a flatteringly eager young woman who had tried to chat him up and he had bought her a drink or two but ended up politely extricating himself from more. She was just so young. So untouched and optimistic and so clearly not going to view him as more than a one-night stand. Not that he had any problem with those, but he was getting tired of sex with someone he barely knew and was never going to see again. Greg didn’t need a happy ever after, but he would like a steady shag.

          Finally the door cooperated and he let himself inside his silent flat; keys on the table, jacket on the hook, shoes kicked off. Ah. Flipping on a second hand lamp he’d picked up when he moved into his post-divorce place, Greg flopped into his luxurious recliner and automatically turned on the telly as he put his feet up.

          He’d stopped for fish and chips and a soda on his way home from the pub, and he intended on enjoying his late dinner while watching something with lots of explosions. Then a wank in the shower, bed and hopefully a solid night of sleep. He would need his rest before the following day. Somehow he had allowed himself to be roped into a planning session for the Holmes-Watson wedding. Or would that be Watson-Holmes?

 

******

 

          Harry let Althea press her against the wall but pulled the other woman to her, smiling in satisfaction when Althea’s sleek curves were nestled perfectly against hers. It had been far too long since she last had sex and while her intention was not to rush anything, there was no harm against a bit of heavy petting. Especially when she was rather pathetically desperate to feel someone else’s hands on her.

          Her life was great—definitely better since she had stopped drinking and focused on work and friends—but Harry missed that close connection with someone else. Althea was exciting, intelligent, with a subtle wit and a killer body. Harry wanted to feel that body, relish that closeness, and hopefully forge a connection for future dates.

          “So sexy,” she found herself murmuring out loud and wanted to bang her head against the wall. God, how _mortifying_. This was why she had started drinking in the first place; her tremendous awkwardness.

          “Yes you are,” Althea praised, and put her lips to the rapid pulse in Harry’s neck. “Very, very tempting,” she purred and Harry shivered helplessly. Bloody hell but this was one devastating woman.

          “I was actually talking about you,” she laughed breathlessly, and dared to slide her hands under the open placket of Althea’s jacket. She found her warm and pliant beneath the silk of her blouse—real silk too, very posh—and was gratified to feel the response to her touch.

          They leaned against the wall, kissing languorously, hands exploring delicately. Harry was used to (well, _used to be_ used to) a much more energetic and fast paced courtship and conclusion. But then of course she had been under the influence of copious amounts of drink. It looked like more than her work life was going to be greatly improved by sobriety.


	2. The Best Laid Plans - Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg's sensible Stag Night for Sherlock and John takes an interesting turn. The women have their own adventure. There are shots of Jaeger, inappropriate dancing and more than a little embarrassing behavior.

         “You think they’re alright?” Molly yelled over the thumping music and the screams and catcalls. While “the boys” were out on their Stag Night with “the lads” Mrs. Hudson had insisted they all go to a strip club. Molly hadn’t seen so much sausage on display since her last trip to the butchers.

          Harry Watson and Althea had gamely entered into the spirit of things and were plying Mrs. Hudson with singles to stick in the G-strings that paraded past. Althea was sipping at the same glass of wine she’d had since they got there an hour prior, and Harry was nursing a bottle of water. Her soon to be sister-in-law looked frankly amazed, but after a bit of polite hanging back Angela had joined the landlady at the main stage and was screaming as a “cowboy” roped a spectator and pulled her up on stage for public humiliation disguised as fun. Molly was grateful she herself was short and unnoticeable and standing well back.

          “I’m sure they’re fine,” Althea shouted back, looking in disbelief at the swinging package that passed by; the dancer was wearing nothing but a very stretchy and forgiving florescent yellow G-string and a pair of firefighter’s boots. “Bloody hell, look at the size of his firehose! And he can dance, too.”

          Molly gave him a distracted glance, “Yes, I’m sure his mother is very proud of him. Seriously, Althea, don’t you think you should pull up your Big Brother app and make sure they’re all present and accounted for?”

          “Molly that would be illegal and ill-advised. Mycroft is there, he’s not going to let anything bad happen. And Greg is planning it all, so I’m sure he’s keeping them out of mischief.”

          Molly snorted, “Mycroft has probably snuck away and Greg Lestrade is a shot of tequila away from YouTubing whatever mad scrape they’re liable to get into.”

          “Go Hudders!” Harry shouted, as Mrs. Hudson clambered onto the stage and showed the firefighter how to suspend himself upside down from the pole with his thighs.

          “Oh Jesus,” Molly groaned.

 

******

 

          “Thanks for inviting me,” David Hooper said politely to John. “You didn’t have to, you know, but thanks.”

          “No problem,” John smiled, “Can’t have you sitting at home alone while we’re all out having this much...fun.” He looked around at what had to be the world’s tamest gay bar.

          Greg scowled at him, “I’m not getting locked up for you lot; last time Sherlock Holmes went on a Stag Night the two of you ended up in holding. And as I recall he had to pay a pretty hefty cleaning bill for vomiting all over that shag carpeting.”

          Sherlock grimaced, “An unfortunate incident, but the night was going well until then. Besides,” He pointed out, brightening, “It later led to the capture of an attempted murderer!”

          “No vomiting, please,” Mycroft said dryly, “I think once was enough.”

          “What a sad lot you are,” Uncle Rudy tutted, coming back from the bar followed by the waitress, who was carrying a tray full of beers and a multitude of shot glasses. “I’ve seen less gloomy faces at a funeral.” He was dressed in masculine clothing, in honour of the night, but his nails were discreetly painted with a clear coat which matched his lip gloss, and they gleamed as he waved a hand at the table. “Just set everything right there, darling.”

          The waitress unloaded her tray and Rudy picked up a shot glass, “Come on, lads, raise your glasses! To Sherlock and John: may every day begin with a kiss, and may every night end bottom’s up!” He winked as broadly as a vaudeville comedian and tossed back his shot. Slamming his glass on the table he reached for his beer, “Come on, drink!”

          “Dear God,” Mycroft whispered, “Take me now.”

          “Watch out how loud you say that,” David murmured, “You’ve drawn a few admiring glances,” and drew a surprised laugh from his sister’s boyfriend. They tipped their shot glasses together and drank, shuddering.

          “What in the world is that?” Mycroft gasped, pulling a sour face and curling his tongue as if to get away from the taste.

          “Jägermeister,” David informed him.

          “No drink should ever taste of licorice,” Mycroft shuddered and drank his beer just to get rid of the flavor in his mouth.

          Sherlock barked out a sudden laugh, “Bottom’s up!”

          John grinned at him, “Did you just get it?”

          “Sexual innuendos are not my forte,” Sherlock reminded him. He drank his shot and licked his lips, “Mm, not bad. They should make more drinks that taste of candy.”

          “Another round!” Rudy cried, hearing this.

          “Have mine,” Greg shoved his drink at Sherlock. “Don’t puke.”

          “Did you really not get it?” David asked Sherlock.

          “No.” Sherlock polished off Greg’s shot and took John’s from his hand and gleefully drank that as well. “Well, you weren’t drinking it,” he said when his fiancé protested.

          “I’m more of a whiskey man,” John admitted; Rudy greeting the waitress by asking for a round of whiskey and more Jägermeister.

          Mycroft closed his eyes, “Is this Stag Night over yet? Surely we’ve been here for at least a week.”

          “It’s eight thirty,” David informed him, checking his mobile. “Hmm, that’s strange...Ang never answered my text earlier. I guess they’re having a good time.”

          “At least someone is,” Mycroft passed his brother his licorice-flavored drink and received two whiskies in return. Ah well, it would help soften the edges of this dreadful night.

 

******

 

          “I thought we were going dancing?” Harry asked, apologizing when a drunken twenty-something shoved past, knocking her into Molly. “Or is that no longer the plan?”

          “God I hope we leave soon,” Molly groaned, “This place is soooo noisy and crowded. And if I see one more guy eying himself in the mirror while he dances I’m going to be sick.”

          Harry grinned at her, and they shuffled forward in the line for the loo, “Meaty guys oiled up and wearing nothing but banana hammocks not your thing?”

          “I’ve never been into guys who live at the gym,” Molly said, “I go for intellect, a sense of humour…a well-tailored suit and a man who just looks at you and all your nerve endings go zing! and—God, it’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

          “Mycroft must be a lot more, um, passionate than I suspected,” Harry said in surprise. Molly just gave her speaking look.

          “And he’s very well-endowed,” she hiccupped a minute later. There were a few hoots from the women in line.

          “Really?” Harry giggled. “Are you drunk?”

          “Maybe just a libble,” Molly answered gravely. “It was go mad or get drunk.”

          “I think we need to go find a club and let this lot dance off some of the booze before something terrible happens,” Harry said to Althea when they finally made their way back to the table.

          “Too late,” Althea informed her, “Angela is on stage and Hudders is AWOL.”

          “Oh. My. Goodness,” Harry breathed, catching sight of Angela’s knickers as she whirled about upside down on the shoulder of a dancer, her skirt flying. “I’ll get twinkle toes, you find trouble. Molly, c’mon, we’ve got to go rescue Angela.”

 

******

 

          “John is an _insatiable_ bottom,” Sherlock informed Greg enthusiastically; he leaned heavily on the older man’s shoulder, his face too close. “C’n I have another licorice thingy? A whassit called? A drinky?”

          “Christ, you’re shit faced, aren’t you?” Greg peered at him, blinking hard; maybe that last whiskey had been a mistake.

          “Noooooo…well, maybe a bit.” Sherlock looked about, “Where’s John?”

          “He’s over there at the juke box.” Greg pointed with a slightly unsteady hand and Sherlock’s head bobbled a bit as it turned, following his line of sight.

          “Music! We shall dance! I am an exceptional dancer, and John is adequate at following my lead.” Sherlock bounded across the bar, intent on reaching his unsuspecting fiancé. Greg closed his eyes and checked to see if he was as sober as he would have liked. All signs pointed to no.

          “I—pardon me,” Mycroft excused himself, rising to his feet, mobile in hand. “I must take this call.” He wavered and corrected himself with his finger tips on the table.

          “That’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him since we arrived a week ago,” David commented, draining his beer. He blinked, “Are there two Sherlocks over there or am I stinking drunk?”

          “Please God just be stinking drunk,” Greg groaned, “The world can barely handle one Sherlock. If there _are_ two of him I’m going to join a monastery.” David snorted and picked up his phone again, tapping out yet another text to his still silent fiancée.

          “Now that would be a shame,” Rudy said quite close to his shoulder, laying a soothing hand on Greg’s knee, “A gorgeous, virile man such as you.” Greg looked at his knee, looked at the hand on it, looked back at Rudy.

          “’m _I_ stinking drunk or are you hitting on me?”

          “I’d say you were middling intoxicated, and yes, I am hitting on you.” Rudy smiled flirtatiously.

          “That’s what I thought. I have to say, I’m disappointed…I like Martha, I thought she had found herself someone special in you—“

          “Our relationship is profoundly meaningful, to both of us.” Rudy stroked Greg’s thigh lightly. Greg tried not to react to the sensation. “But neither Martha nor I are interested in monotony.”

          “I think you mean monogamy.” Greg caught David’s interested eyes on them and didn’t know where to look.

          “No, I meant monotony.” Rudy turned so one of his knees was pressed against Greg’s and leaned in a little closer. He smelled quite nice, familiar. Greg’s ex-wife used to wear that perfume, Vixen, or Temptress or something similarly named. “Our connection is deep and true, but we both desire…a little spice from time to time.”

          “A seventy year old ex-stripper and her cross-dressing boyfriend need spice?”

          Rudy tapped his thigh—Greg noticed his hand was quite a bit higher now, definitely out of the accidental placement/socially acceptable range—“I could be misreading you, but as I’m the one who taught both of my nephews how to observe and deduce, I’ll be immodest and say I’m most certainly not. You are a man who enjoys playing in both fields, and your needs are not being met, which I think is a terrible shame. It’s a waste of a delicious specimen of manhood such as sits here before me.”

          Delicious…yes, he was delicious, wasn’t he? “And you want me to, what, join the two of you?” David was flat out eavesdropping now, but Greg had trouble caring. If Rudy’s hand went any higher they were going to be in danger of a public indecency charge.

          “If you’re not comfortable with engaging in sexual activity with either of us, we could arrange for you to spend quality time with one of us while the other watches.”

          “…I’m going to go to the loo!”

          Eyes locked, they barely noticed David awkwardly inch out of the booth and make a break for it.

          “You don’t have to give me your answer now—“

          “Oh, I do beg your pardon. I’ll just…yes.” Unnoticed by the men, whose lips were all but touching, Mycroft backed away from the table and went in search of David. They had a…situation.

 

******

 

          “Last night was…interesting,” Althea said delicately, putting a bone china tea cup and saucer next to her employer’s hand. She was careful not to clink or rattle, as he was looking fairly ghastly, though not as much as when he had come in an hour previous. “Mrs. Hudson is a remarkably fit woman for her age, she had the patrons raining money before she took off into the night. Apparently she inspired Angela, she was quite taken with exotic dancing by the time Molly and Harry dragged her off the stage.”

          Mycroft shuddered delicately, and sipped gingerly at his tea. Althea sat in her accustomed chair and pulled up files on her tablet. “Mrs. H led me quite a merry chase last night. It’s a good thing I hadn’t had much to drink and was wearing sensible shoes.”

          He smiled slightly, as Althea’s version of sensible shoes was four inch heels.

          “Molly wasn’t exactly foxed last night, but she was fairly tipsy…I hope she wasn’t feeling too wretched this morning.”

          “Hrm—“ he paused and cleared his throat, took another sip of tea, “She was resting comfortably when I left. Molly has a remarkably strong constitution when it comes to imbibing.” _Greater than my own_ , he thought, wincing as his mobile chirped. Molly had been texting him rather more frequently than usual, and with his current physical state he wanted to throw his mobile against the wall, burn it, strew the ashes and salt the ground it lay on. Perhaps he should turn the sound down.

          “That’s good. How did the Stag Night go?” Althea tapped away at her phone, and missed the rictus that gripped his face.

          “It was…singular.”

          “Dancing on the table singular? Or oops help me get rid of this dead body singular?”

          “Somewhere betwixt,” Mycroft replied, massaging his temples with his fingertips. Molly continued to text him and while the chirping of his alerts was no longer drilling into his brain, each soft sound made him flinch.

           Althea was doing her own texting, her phone mercifully silent. “When David and I departed to assist you and Miss Watson with extracting and corralling the members of your _hen party_ , my brother and his fiancé were grinding their nether parts upon one another in a move my brother identified as “dirty dancing”—dirty being the operative word— while a group of young men in body glitter and very brief short pants egged them on. I’m fairly certain footage of said dancing will be unleashed upon the world if is not already lurking on the internet. Uncle Rudy was attempting to seduce the Detective Inspector shortly before I departed—knowing the both of them I’d say there was a fair chance he succeeded. I haven’t inquired as to whether or not any of them returned home without being brought up on morals charges.”

          “Hudders will be delighted,” Althea grinned, “She was telling me last night they were hoping to pull Lestrade.”

          Mycroft put his hands over his ears, “Please stop talking. In fact, try not to breathe so loudly. I unwisely ingested a variety of intoxicating beverages last night and while they have sadly failed to render me into a blackout state wherein I fail to recall in excruciating detail each and every licentious act that I witnessed last night, they have given me a pounding head and a sour stomach.”

          His PA may possibly have giggled, but when he bent a stern eye on her she was as blank faced as always.

          “So you didn’t enjoy yourself at all? Not even the portion of the evening before too much alcohol was had and poor decisions were made?” That time she did outright snicker at the fishy look he bestowed upon her. “Or after? I’m sure Molly was most... _amorous_ after you returned home. Harry reevaluated her image of you after last night you know.”

          “How nice.” Mycroft sniffed at the plain biscuit Althea had put on his saucer and took a tiny nibble.

          “Yes, between the take-action aspect of you throwing Hudders over your shoulder and then into the cab, and the revealing details Molly shared with her about your, ahem, _manly attributes_ , Harry has decided that you must not be made entirely out of ice. I stopped her from speculating on the length of your…icicle.”

          “Oh, dear _Lord_.”


End file.
